Shards of glass in the eggs;
A wiggle in the window.
My excuse for having dropped the butter dish.
Animals are so scarce seen in these parts;
Is this what has startled me?
A snout, a fur-ridged back, a bushy tail?
All day, sharp needling pains in the abdomen,
Moving lower. My broach fell
Into the forsythia last year,
But not before I felt the pin on skin.
I looked, but could not find it.
I lay awake at night,
Hand on the phone; if there is blood later,
I will have to call someone to drive me
The hour to town, to the hospital. I think
Of that whisker, those wily paws. Wherever
He is, I hope he is wearing my finery;
I hope he is well-dressed tonight.
